Through the Lonesome Dark

by Richardson, Paddy

  But the Kiwis are asked for help when a trench needs rebuilding and they’re called on, as well, to look into any suspicions the Tommies might have of the Hun laying mines. More often than not, Clem stops on his way through after a shift and has a game of cards and a brew. He knows some of them by name, but that’s always changing; he has a bit of a yarn with whoever’s there and then he’s off.

  But there was one Tommy, Joe, just a little fellow, looked like he wasn’t much over fifteen to tell the truth. He said he was twenty-one, but by the look of him he’d barely started to shave. He took a shine to Clem and though Clem thought he was a bit of a fool at first, a boy trying to be a man, swearing too much and trying to drink with the rest of them but getting himself wobbly and his voice slurring soon as he had a mouthful, he played cards with him and then he started to feel sorry for the lad.

  Young Joe didn’t have the first idea of what was what; there was never a hope of turning him into a good soldier, little and weedy as he was. Clem had started chatting to him, taking an interest. He shouldn’t have done that. He knew better. You have to hold yourself back, not let yourself get too chummy because if you’re in the ground and you start wondering who’s up above you getting hurt and dying you can’t do your job.

  Joe liked to talk about where he lived and his sister, he was close to, Sally, her name was. There was just the two of them, his dad had gone off years ago and his ma died before the war. He used to tell Clem when this was over he was taking him back with him to Birmingham to meet Sally. She was a real looker and they’d get on like a house on fire, the two of them, he knew they would.

  Clem was told they’d been playing that tomfoolery game, holding a helmet up on the stick trying to get Fritz to fire at it and this time it’d been Joe’s helmet and as they lowered it down the silly young bugger had reached up for it and got his head blown off his shoulders.

  They’re nearly through the trenches now and he’s hardly said a word. He’s not telling Tam, not yet. But he can’t stop thinking about it. Joe would be laughing in that daft way he had, excited that the lads had chosen his helmet to wave and happy he was a part of what was going on. He’d be like a youngster running after the older ones, too busy feeling big to think what’s what.

  Well, he’s dead now, with all that there could have been for him gone. Not that it’s different for Joe than for any other boy that dies out here but there’s Sally all on her own now and with the news coming to her. Joe said they hadn’t parted on the best of terms, that when he’d told her he was going all she could do was cry and tell him he was a fool. She’d been right, of course. Joe shouldn’t have gone: stupid young bugger didn’t know his arse from his elbow. But being right won’t bring him back to her.

  When it’s a good day what he likes to do is get away a few miles out behind the front. There’s still the tremors and the wallop of guns and shellfire but a man can be out there and left to his own thoughts. When Tam is off duty as well, they go there together, have a few smokes and a whisky or two. Sometimes they talk and sometimes they’re silent. That’s when he’ll tell Tam about Joe, but not now, not going on shift. It’s bad luck to talk about lads being killed going on shift.

  But he can just see Joe reaching up to get his helmet. He’d have forgotten all about Fritz ready to shoot him, even though probably there were the holes in his helmet to prove he was there and looking out. Tam will know what he’s feeling. Not that he’ll say anything because there isn’t anything to say, not now. Probably not ever.

  Today him and Tam are paired up with Sharpe and Green, good reliable blokes both of them. They’re to work on a gallery that’s just about got to where it needs to be underneath German lines and this one’s taken almost the whole year to dig through the sixty or so feet of chalk and reinforcing it as they go. It’s only a few weeks off loading and, by God, the way he’s feeling right now he hopes when it blows it’ll take out a fair number of the bastards, including that bastard who shot Joe.

  By God, he does.

  The lad’s gone and that’s the end of it. He’ll get through the shift and tonight they’ll take themselves out and, with the days off ahead, he can have a fair few whiskies and a bit of a play-up. That’s what he needs.

  Think of anything else. Think of anything but the boy.

  He’s done his turn at listening and turned it over to Green. He’s using the pick and having a fair old go at the chalk. Sharpe’s alongside of him and Tam’s there further down the tunnel. The gallery’s not far off finished. Will he be one of them on for the loading? He hopes he’s not. That’s the job nobody likes, the main reason being that if Fritz gets an inkling of what’s going on, he’ll be in there as well trying to load and fire first. But it’s not so much that he hates as the process of lowering the boxes carrying the explosives down the shaft then carrying them to the face where the whole shebang has to be emptied into bags, and the ammonal turning your hands and your face and anything else it touches yellow. Then the detonators are to go in and the fuse and everything bolstered in sandbags and the leads connected and all of it done so quickly, there’s the tension and concentration on every face around you: if something’s not done right it’s all going to blow.

  Good getting it over and getting out after. Someone has to do it. If it’s not him it’s some other poor bugger. Nobody likes it.

  He looks at Green. Because Green has said something and he’s got his hand out now waving for them to be silent but that’s the last he sees or hears before the blast comes roaring booming filling up all around fracturing and juddering floor walls roof heaving up coming down, Jesus, Jesus oh bloody Christ oh Jesus.

  How long has he been out to it? How long has he been here? He’s on his back in the darkness. There’s the sound here with him; is it his own breathing, whistling and rattling like that? Or is it Sharpe? He was nearest him and the breathing’s that loud it could be both of them. He tries to push the name out, his mouth’s that dry, it’s hard to get it out.

  ‘Sharpy?’

  He listens, listens hard, holding on to his own breath and trying to make out what’s there. That’s what he’s good at. Listening. Sharpe was closest to him, Tam furthest away down the next section.

  ‘Sharpe?’

  Nothing. Nothing.

  ‘Sharpy?’

  He tries to shift himself but there’s such a heaviness, such a slicing pain from somewhere down his body that he can’t move. What if Sharpe’s dead beside him and he’s left down here with Sharpy’s body rotting starting to stink beside him? His mouth turns dry at the thought of it. He doesn’t think he could bear that. But it could be Sharpy’s still alive and the blast knocked him further down the tunnel. All of them could be alive down there. With any luck Tam was far enough away to be out of it.

  Him and Tam are the lucky ones and those down with them are lucky as well. They’re lucky. The lads will be coming for them and though his breathing is frightening him with the thick sound of it and the pain’s tearing at him, he has to keep himself awake.

  He counts. One, breathe in, and two, breathe out. One to ten. One to ten and back again. Counting will keep him going, counting will keep him awake, keep him concentrated. If he sleeps he’ll have had it. Two, three. They’ll be coming for him. They’re coming. They’ll have their Protos strapped on now, and they’ll be digging. Already, right now, they’ll be digging. Most likely it’s only the end of the gallery that’s gone and they won’t have too far. It won’t be too long.

  He strains to hear the sound of the shovels and picks. He’s listening for them. Listening’s what he’s good at.

  Where are they?

  Four. His mouth is so dry his tongue’s stuck to the top of his mouth. He’d give anything for water. Five. But he’s got air. There’s nothing pressing down on him so he’s got enough room to move around. If he could, that is. Something’s bust inside him, could be his ribs, could be his back. If it’s his ba
ck, may as well leave him down here.

  But he wants to live. Every one of them here wants that, the Diggers and the Tommies, even those going over the top, not a one of them thinks it’ll be him catches it. It’ll always be some other bloke who’ll cop it, some other bugger who’ll be caught by the snipers or the shells or the guns. It’s some other bugger crying out, someone else down with the stinking carcasses and the rats.

  They’re coming for him. They’ll be giving it their best. It’ll take time. That’s all.

  Except sometimes their best isn’t good enough and with the best will in the world they can’t get through, not without risking the whole shebang coming down, and if it’s most likely nobody’s left alive why would they risk it? He wouldn’t risk it himself if it were all caving in and coming down on you and with the gas and all and the men in there most likely dead.

  We’ll have to leave it, try when it’s settled, try to get them out later, give them a decent burial.

  He tries to think back to the morning. Who knew they were going down there and who knew where they were? There’s a log of who goes in and where to, but it could be that in the blast the men who knew could have been lost as well. There’s no telling from this end what the damage is or how far it went. He’s seen craters, big as lakes, blasted out of the earth.

  Six. Seven. Better not to think about that. He’s got air. They could be only a few feet away and still he couldn’t hear them through the wall of rock and muck and broken timber.

  Could be the air is poisoned and him breathing it in. How long do you have? How long before it kills you? It’s minutes, he knows it’s minutes, so if there’s nothing but minutes it must be the air’s all right so hold on, just hold on. Breathing’s all he can do, breathing and hoping, in and out. Eight. Nine. In, out.

  He wants to close his eyes but he can’t. Wants to close his eyes, so tired, you get off to bed, son, you can hardly hold your eyes open. He might stop breathing, he’s on his back, can’t turn over. His lungs’ll collapse, then his heart will go. His body will pack up, just shut itself down.

  Eight. Nine. He’d like to reach out and feel how close the earth is above and around him, but he can’t move either of his arms so it could be his back that’s broken and that’s bad, really bad. But he still wants to live. Doesn’t want to die down here. If he has to die he wants to do it out of all this blackness and under the sky.

  Makes you laugh to think of a miner scared of the dark. But he hates being in the dark and if he gets out of here and home he’s not going back down the mines.

  Ten.

  Mother. I’m scared of the dark.

  It’s all of it making him fuzzy, the pain and the breathing and the dark. One. He closes his eyes, oh and look, it’s like something’s pulling at him, taking him up and swinging him around, around, around.

  Look now where he is up here above Stafford Street and higher even than the ropes hooked up to carry the coal to the railway and, look here, it’s their own place, the peaked roof with the poles supporting the veranda and the front door right in the middle between the two front windows.

  He’s home again and though it’s night it’s not like where he was down in the earth because he can start making things out right away. Even though Mother’s been in and blown out the lamp you can still see once your eyes’ve got used to it, first the edge of the cupboard and now his coat hanging from the hook on the door because there’s the moon and stars lighting everything up.

  Not like down there. Not like down there where there’s not a bit to see that’s not black.

  29

  There’s the boy kneeling up on the chesterfield sofa from Uddstrom’s in Mackay Street, Greymouth. We’re not paying it off, we’ll buy it straight out when we have the money. Mother’s nodding her agreement. The chesterfield sofa, covered in mid-brown moquette, brought through on the train from Greymouth, Mother sitting hard down on it when Arthur Reid came in with his bit of paper saying they could take away the household goods of the strike leaders to pay for the seventy-five quid fine, sitting hard down on it and saying they could take her to the auction and all and that was the only way they were getting her sofa, Mr Reid.

  The boy’s looking out the front room window his fingers on the glass staring into rain that’s surging straight down out of the sky like a waterfall and he’s pressing his fingers hard against the raindrops swelling up with light from the lamplight trapped inside and bursting and coming down and filling with light and bursting and dribbling down.

  Now he’s up and over the top of the roof and around the back and there’s the kitchen with the lamp turned up on the windowsill and she’s at the stove, Mother is, she’s banking the stove for the night. The bread’s rising on the rack, there it is in the pan with a cloth over it and by the morning it’ll be all puffed up ready to go in and she’ll rip a bit of the crust off for you when she pulls it out. The smell of it and the softness, chewy and warm in your mouth.

  Two. Breathe.

  The boy’s outside the back door on the step looking down the path. The path is clear for the few yards and that’s all right but then it goes through the ferns and the flaxes and the trees and it’s raining and already he can feel the slap of wet leaves on his face, hear the crackle of the cabbage tree as the wind moves through it. He’ll have to feel for the dunny door and open it up. He’ll have to sit on the dunny seat with the whispers and the crackles and the night and the stink. He’s scared but he’s too old to say it.

  Mother.

  But she knows and she closes the door of the stove. She turns and faces him and smiles. I could do with a bit of fresh air meself. Come on then.

  He feels the solidness of her behind him, following him through the dark.

  Three. Four. He feels the closeness of it to his face the cold and the heaviness of it by his face, it could go, any minute and it could go. What if he could get himself out of here, what if there’s space behind him or in front except it’s so dark, wouldn’t he see a bit of light if he was close enough, but it could be night by now, he could have been out for hours, the days are drawing in now and the dark comes earlier.

  He could drag himself forward on his belly if he could turn himself over or he could try it on his back, come to that, pushing his body backwards with his legs. He’s sweating with the trying, feels the sweat cold on his forehead. His right leg won’t budge, he can move the left but there’s no chance of moving himself with his arms out of it and one of his legs as well, no chance at all. But if he can move one leg, probably it’s not his back and he feels his legs so he’s got them at least. He’s heard of men who’ve lost their legs feeling them still hurting months afterwards. He could be lying here thinking he’s moving his leg when all the time it’s gone.

  That’d be one to tell Otto. Otto would laugh his head off over that one. Here was me thinking my back was all right because I could move my leg while all the time it was lying six feet away from me in the muck. Otto always appreciated a good joke.

  That boy will lead you into trouble, my lad, don’t tell me he won’t.

  If it wasn’t for Otto he wouldn’t be in this mess. Another joke. Him stuck with Pansy and her kid and down a hole because of it and Otto sitting the war out on his island with regular food and, more than likely, a proper bed with a mattress and blankets and a pillow and no lice.

  Five.

  ‘You get off to bed now, son. My word, you can hardly keep your eyes open.’

  The boy’s in the kitchen with the broom behind the door and the table top scrubbed down, almost white it is from the scrubbing. The dishes are washed and on the shelves and the cups are hanging from the hooks. She gives a last polish to the inside of the pot and puts it on the rack above the stove, not the one for the bread rising but the one above it. She looks around the kitchen as she wipes her hands on her apron, unties it and hangs it on the hook on the door. ‘All serene,’ she says, as she a
lways does. ‘All serene.’

  Probably swimming, catching fish. Living the life of Riley. Slipping over to Wellington whenever the mood takes him. Otto’d find the way.

  That boy will lead you into trouble, my lad, don’t tell me he won’t.

  Six. Seven. Eight. He’d give anything for water. Just a mouthful would do. The feel of water swilling around his tongue and his throat. He’d hold it at the front of his mouth at first, let it work on the dryness there, then he’d send it down the back, let his throat have a go. He’d give anything for water.

  He’s up in the bush amid the supplejack and the ferns and the beeches. The thud of his feet dull against the springy softness. Years of rotting leaves and ferns and grass beneath your feet and the rain drip-dripping onto your head, into your mouth. The silence of it. The green all around you, all the colours of green: yellowish and black-green and pale and bright. You can’t even smell the coal out here, only this smell like nothing else, a dark smell with sweetness at its edges.

  He’s running with the creek down below him, he wants to hold his face down into the clear running water, wants to cool his face, drink and drink and drink.

  He can’t hear anything. They’ve given up on him. If they were coming he’d hear. They’d be talking to him, hold on cobber we’re nearly there just hold on a bit longer. They’d be talking to him softly, keeping him calm and he’d be talking back, joking like, thought you were never coming what’ve you been hanging about for I must say it’s a poor lookout when a man can’t even get a cuppa tea down here.